


Wash, Rinse, Repeat

by LegendaryBard



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, M/M, Project Freelancer, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, bad sleeping schedules, just like.... a kinda sorta study on washington i guess, this is Before It All Went To Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12767028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: Humans were creatures of habit, and Freelancers were, underneath all the armors, enhancements, and AIs, just human.





	1. The Beginning

Washington always had difficulty sleeping. Back when he’d been David, back when he’d just barely been christened as Agent Washington, back when he’d been frequently called Church by Caboose, and even now, waiting for Locus and Felix and Hargrove to kill all of them with no warning or mercy. 

The paranoid habit of checking on people during his nightly prowls was as old as his ability to walk. He recalled being seven or eight years old, quietly stepping on the least squeaky floorboards and checking his mother’s bedroom, then his sisters’. He never had anything to show for it: his sisters never died spontaneously in their sleep, and neither did his mother. All he got was a deficit of sleep he needed in his growing years and a bad habit he should’ve broken long ago.

At seventeen he was swept into the military. At not much older he was opted into Freelancer for his outstanding ( although unrefined and probably mediocre compared to the specialist likes of Carolina or North Dakota or Maine or York ) performance. 

He didn’t know it until a few months into the program, but he’d found a family after he’d left his biological one behind. 

He remembered late night conversations with North and York, the smuggled beers and tiny parties the entire Freelancer crew had. They were thrown in the cramped storage bay of the Mother of Invention, carefully soundproofed and a safe distance from most crewmembers. CT and Wyoming had been their alcohol smugglers, North and South shared party-planning duties, York was in charge of getting the time and date distributed to everyone ( although that became Delta’s job when the A.I.s were first implemented ). Maine had been their bouncer, quickly diverting anyone who wasn’t an approved Freelancer ( Carolina and Texas had come dangerously close to crashing their illicit parties more than once ), and everyone else’s job was simply to make time to attend. All in all, it usually ended with terrible caterwauling karaoke, drunken makeouts ( that Washington participated in, although he doesn’t remember entirely who or what he’d kissed; he seems to recall Maine, York, North, South, CT, Georgia- Basically everyone who was invited, but it was hard to say, since he’d been drunk most of the time ) and a heaping helping of card games. 

Fond memories built a fond family. Whenever they didn’t have their little shindigs, Wash found himself doing what he did as a child and checking in on them at night. 

It was absolutely insane and irrational, and he knew it. Each Freelancer was hooked up to equipment that called their trained staff of medical professionals if something went wrong; be it a stilled heart or loss of blood or lack of brainwaves. No one was going to die or be attacked in their sleep, but when he arose from a fresh REM cycle he prowled through the living quarters and made notes of everyone’s status. 

Florida slept even less than Wash did, and never removed his helmet or armor. Not to say he wasn’t approachable, though; he was always the most friendly, accommodating, and accepting of their number. Cheery wasn’t quite right, but he had an unshakable calmness that struck Washington as almost supernatural. It wasn’t right, the way his words were so slow and measured, the way the friendly cadence of his voice seemed just a shred off, the way he never showed his face. Washington wasn’t entirely convinced he was human, but he was compliant in Washington’s paranoia. Whenever he cracked open Florida’s door, there was a musical “Hello, Washington”, from the man’s bunk. Occasionally it was accompanied by a neutral “you’re up late” or a “doing your rounds again?”, but Florida never brought it up with anyone and was complicit with Wash checking up on him and the other Freelancers. For that he supposed he was grateful. 

Maine snored. Especially after the damage to his throat, which produced a slashed, garish whistling noise with every deep breath. He also slept like a rock, and probably wouldn’t have awoken even if Washington stomped up to him and yelled in his ear. Maine didn’t talk much- and when he did it was almost always monosyllabic- but he was a brute in combat and a brute all around. He was good company, though. A bad conversationalist but mostly harmless, non-threatening, and on the battlefield, a reassuring presence. The addition of Sigma made Washington’s nightly checkups a little more uncomfortable, because a burning hellish avatar sitting on Maine’s chest while he slept was more than a little disturbing. The AI answered Washington opening the door with a muted “Hello, Washington”, before winking out of existence. Washington wondered, on occasion, if Sigma sat there waiting for him every night. He didn’t know if that was creepy or endearing. Probably creepy. 

Connecticut slept on her side, back facing the wall. Probably just in case someone decided to attack. Washington knew from experience she had a knife under her mattress that she was ready and willing to whip out and attack with. Her helmet sat ready and willing on her drawer, freshly shined ( a nightly ritual, he’d learned ) and her armor was always nearby. She barely moved, barely breathed, barely made a sound. Her sleep was restful, mostly, and he was envious of that, although he’d never admit it, even to himself. Her disappearance stung for a long time, and he sat in the empty room more than once, straining to hear the tickle of her breath even though he knew it was gone. He took the combat knife from its place under the mattress before the Freelancer Project turned to dust. A keepsake. 

North Dakota, for the later hours of the night, was mostly not in his room. Wash found him walking the halls sometimes, too, Theta perched on his shoulder, swinging his legs. “What’re you doing up, Wash?” North chided him the first couple of times, then it went to flat-out concern after North caught him patrolling past one in the morning for the fifteenth time. Wash learned to stay in his room whenever he heard North’s footsteps in the hall; it was easy to tell which ones were his, because oftentimes North was humming Theta a song that Wash assumed was a lullaby. When North actually did manage to sleep- usually no later than three in the morning- he slept mostly on his back, wedged close to the wall although there was ample space on the bed. Washington realized why after the first couple nights: the gap was for Theta, although he was holographic. 

North would’ve made a great father, and Washington mourned the fact that he never got the chance. 

South Dakota kicked in her sleep. Oftentimes the blankets were rumpled on the floor, or the pillow was halfway across the room. In a stroke of sheer, soft sentimentality, Wash carefully laid the blanket over her the first time he’d come across this, and from then on, it was a ritual. There wasn’t much he could do about the pillow without waking her up; the first time South’d caught him trying to put the pillow back, he could only sputter excuses and pray she wouldn’t send him to the medbay for the rest of the night. Washington had ended up nursing a jabbed solar plexus for a few days after. He hadn’t been deterred, though; the blankets were going on whether she liked it or not. 

Carolina was tricky. She was hypervigilant and  _ fast  _ to boot. His best bet with her was to open the door just  _ barely  _ and listen for the soft stir of her breathing. Getting too close would wake her, and he really,  _ really  _ did not want her nagging him about “proper sleeping schedules” or something like that. He slept just fine, but his team’s well-being  _ concerned  _ him. That wasn’t paranoid, it was normal. At any event, she seemed to favor sleeping on her back or on her side, with her spine to the wall. When it appeared, Sigma was like a demon, leering over her at night; it’d never spoken to him when it was with Carolina, but there was something disturbing in its eyes that made him want to move on to the next Freelancer as quickly as possible. 

Washington didn’t like Wyoming all  _ that  _ much. The man was ruthless and hardly anything more than a common mercenary. His AI, Gamma, did little other than tell poor knock-knock jokes. Its speech was awkward and broken, like the computers of yore, and it had always seemed quietly sinister underneath the synthesized, jagged words. Despite  _ all  _ that, Washington wouldn’t be caught failing in his rounds. A quick listen to the doorway was all it took; if he pressed his ear to the metal he could hear the steady rasp of Wyoming’s snoring, and the occasional mumbled knock-knock joke from Gamma. Apparently the AI  _ practiced  _ telling them. Or he was trying to subconsciously influence Wyoming to be obnoxious by telling him knock-knock jokes in his sleep. Either option was ridiculous and Washington moved on to the next room quickly.  

After Wyoming was Texas’. He didn’t dare get near and contented himself with the fact that there was  _ nothing in existence  _ that could kill Texas. 

Last one: New York. He slept like the dead. Washington could probably get a whole marching band in his room and he wouldn’t so much as stir- He was even worse than Maine when he was really out of it. Probably not the best survival instinct, but York was an infiltrator above all else. He never had to worry about being ambushed at night. It culminated in the fact that he was one of the only people to sleep on his belly instead of on his back and sides- he didn’t mind the vulnerability of having his face down and hands under him and spine bare for a blade or bullet. However, like all others with an AI, he always had  _ someone  _ watching his back. Delta would pop up whenever Washington set foot in the room, keeping his voice lowered out of ( unnecessary ) courtesy to York. He gave a quick, summarized report of York’s sleeping status to Washington: What stage of REM sleep York was in, if he’d had any disturbances in slumber or heartbeat or brainwaves or breathing, the exact number of minutes that York had been sleeping for, everything Washington could possibly need. He would then offer Washington some advice as to how to get to sleep, which Washington would cordially ignore. Delta would wish him goodnight and they’d go their separate ways. 

Wash, rinse, repeat. He woke up sharply after every REM cycle- bursts of sleep lasting an hour and a half(ish), supposing he didn’t awake earlier from nightmares. After he awoke, he’d prowl and check on everyone, then climb in bed and try vainly to sleep again. Between the thirty minutes it took to finally get himself to sleep and two minutes per Freelancer he checked on ( give or take; for example, South Dakota took longer, Carolina took less ) meant he was getting about an hour and a half of sleep for every fifty minutes spent checking. He combed through the math one night when it was obvious he wasn’t going to be doing any sleeping. He turned in at eleven, like most Freelancers, and was officially supposed to be awake and ready for training or missions by seven, although he arose at six or sometimes five if his REM cycles were janked that particular day. 

By his calculations, he was averaging four hours and thirty minutes of sleep a night. While that was not  _ great,  _ at least it wasn’t completely abysmal. The standards for soldiers hundreds of years ago had been just as little, and they managed to win their wars and not die ( from sleep deprivation, anyway. ) Wash figured it wasn’t really a problem. Besides, North was doing just as badly, if not worse, some nights due to Theta. 

Epsilon made it worse. Of course it did. He had his own terrible memories and others to sift through now. His nightmares got worse. More frequent. The fact that he went on to be Recovery One made it worse- he constantly jumping from place to place, being forced to sleep in unfamiliar territory. His checking-in rituals disturbed by the fact that there was no one to check in on anymore, which sent a hot knife of guilt and unease through his chest whenever he awoke. 

Humans were creatures of habit, and Freelancers were, underneath all the armors, enhancements, and AIs, just human. 

 


	2. Getting Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> poor wash

“Wash! Up late again, I see!” 

_ North.  _

“Caught me,” Washington shrugs ever so slightly. 

“What were you doing in Maine’s room?” 

“Thought I heard a noise.” He deflects.

“Thought you heard a noise? He’s two doors down, and being a Freelancer didn’t give you super hearing.” North pauses and Washington prays he’ll just go the hell to bed. “You know, if you’re worried…” 

“I’m not worried!” His voice sounds thin and reedy, even to himself. 

“He took nine bullets to the throat. It’s okay to be concerned, but you don’t have to be up at odd hours of the night-” 

Wash rolls his eyes, although it’s not like North can see them behind the helmet. “Forget it, North. I’m going to bed.” 

North’s hand comes down on his shoulder and his instincts send up alarms, ordering Washington to defend himself. He stiffens at the contact and forces himself to relax on his next exhale, which is much too slow and defeated for his liking. 

“You don’t look good, Wash.” 

“You don’t, either.” He replies brusquely. “We’ve had difficult times.” 

“Too right.” North pauses, then leans in conspiratorially. “Well, I know this is York’s job, but we’re throwing another shindig in the storage bay. CT and Wyoming have been scraping together the good stuff to celebrate a mission well done.”

“The ‘good stuff’?” 

“Chips and whiskey.” North lets go of his shoulder and gives him a friendly clap on the back. “And  _ everybody’s  _ gonna go.” 

“Everyone? Like, Iowa and Utah and Idaho-?” 

“Okay, not  _ everybody,  _ but our crew, you know? The A-Team.” 

Wash nods, although the motion is more subconscious than genuine understanding. 

“When is this, exactly?” 

“As soon as everybody’s got free time. Delta’ll be around to tell you exactly when, but no more than a week, I think.” 

“Alright.” Washington nods. 

“Theta’s quieting down,” North observes. “I’m gonna turn in. You should probably do the same, Wash.” 

“Believe me, I know.” Washington waves him off and heads back to his own room. He sits on the edge of his bed, then smoothly transitions onto his back, hands folded over his chest. He tries to keep his breathing slow and calm, a lull that would carry him to sleep. 

_ You’re not done,  _ a soft voice insists.  _ You’ve got to check on the others.  _

_ No I don’t,  _ he growls back at himself. 

He holds his breath and listens, waiting for the sound of footsteps. North Dakota must’ve gone to bed. 

Washington lays there for twenty minutes of stifling silence, then gets up to continue his check through the other Freelancers’ rooms. He collapses on the bed another twenty minutes later, his helmet clock accusingly reading  _ 4:10.  _ It takes an additional twenty for him to lapse into sleep.

When he wakes up the following morning, it’s part of the routine. When night comes by, he makes his usual rounds. So on, so forth. 

Three days later, at breakfast, Delta appears, hovering over his oatmeal.

“Hi, Delta.” He drags his spoon through the watery oats, gaze on his food instead of the AI. 

“Hello, Agent Washington. I am to inform you that there is a party tonight.” 

“They finally got around to that, huh?” 

“Yes. It is the usual time and place.” 

“I’ll be there.” 

Delta winks out of existence and Carolina abruptly sits down next to him, tray clattering.

“What was that about?” 

“York needed to tell me something.” Washington shrugs.

“Couldn’t do it in person?” 

“He’s busy.” Washington forces himself to not duck his head like he wants to. He’s not a good liar. 

“Really?” Carolina repeats, disbelieving. “What’s he doing?” 

“I don’t know. He wasn’t very specific.” 

Carolina doesn’t look like she believes that, either. She scrutinizes him for a little too long, then goes to her food. Eggs and toast, fresh fruit. He steals a strawberry off her plate and she jabs at his fingers warningly with her fork. He evades her and manages to not get stabbed by the prongs, grinning cheekily all the while.

“That’s mine,” She says breezily, her fork pointing towards him in mock accusation.

“Yep.” He pops it in his mouth. The best part about new food shipments- their most recent was yesterday- is how  _ fresh  _ everything is. You don’t have a real appreciation for what food tastes like fresh until you’ve been eating powdered eggs and boxed meals for a month. 

“Hmph.” She returns to her own food, seemingly content with letting him have it. Carolina is more agreeable during breakfast, he finds. 

He sips his coffee. Sets it down. She picks up his mug, throwing him a Look, and drinks, keeping direct eye contact with him the whole time. She sets it down when it’s empty and he has to battle the grin off his face. She keeps eye contact for a second- wordlessly challenging him to challenge  _ her-  _ and he has the self-preservation to shrug, smile, and go back to his oatmeal. 

She scarfs down her eggs and gets up. He tracks her progress through the mess hall until she turns a corner- getting a drink, no doubt- and steals another one of her strawberries. 

When she comes back it’s with two steaming mugs, and he almost feels bad about taking her food. Almost.

She sits down, slides him one of the mugs. 

“Thanks.” 

“Yeah, yeah. You mind telling me what you and Delta were actually talking about?” 

“Can’t.” 

He should’ve known better. Carolina never liked being left out of  _ anything-  _ she latches onto that ‘can’t’ like a leech. 

“Can’t? Why?” 

“Because it’s not just me involved, Carolina.” He rebuffs. 

“Wash, you can tell me.” 

“Can’t. _ ”  _ He scrapes at the last of his oatmeal with the edge of his spoon. 

“Wash-” Her nostrils flare. 

“Can’t.” 

“I’m gonna ask Delta,” Carolina warns. “He can’t lie to me.” 

_ Crap.  _

“Me and a couple other Freelancers, we’ve got a thing going on tonight.” He leans away from her slightly, faux casual. 

“A thing?” She repeats.

“A party.” 

“A  _ party?”  _  She has the tact to keep her voice down, at least. 

“Look, everyone figured you wouldn’t want to be involved-” 

“The hell I don’t! I want to go!” She looks more excited than angry. That didn’t bode well.

Washington slowly spoons the last of the oatmeal into his mouth. “Carolina, I’m not sure if it’s really your speed-” 

“ _ Wash,”  _ She’s got the Voice, the low tone of frustration that warns him not to try to baby her, because she can and will kick his ass SO hard. 

“Okay, fine. It’s me, Wyoming, Florida, CT, North and South, Maine-” 

“Wait, who  _ isn’t  _ in on this?” 

He coughs. “You. And Texas.” 

“Why weren’t  _ we  _ invited?” 

“Because Texas is- you know, and  _ you  _ wouldn’t, um, approve.” 

“Approve of  _ what?”  _

“There might be some rule bending.” 

“‘Rule bending’?” 

“CT and Wyoming get us drinks.” 

“That’s not so-” 

“Alcohol. Lots of alcohol.” 

She frowns slightly. “How did  _ you  _ get involved in this?” 

“It used to be just a thing with Connie and South and Wyoming, then North edged in to keep an eye on South and CT invited me.”

“I want to go,” She says, decisively.

“Okay, but you and I have to meet up first. If you try and go in there by yourself, Maine’s our bouncer-” 

“I can take Maine.” 

“Yeah, but while you two are duking it out, Sigma will warn us and everybody else will have scattered. We’ve got a system.” 

“You do more planning for your illicit parties than you do on the field,” She marvels. 

“Everyone’s more motivated when there’s alcohol involved.” He says lightly. “It starts at eleven, but people trickle in at random times to avoid suspicion. Meet me outside my room.” 

Carolina hums pleasantly and pats him on the shoulder. She takes his empty bowl as she goes- he stops her, chugs his coffee, and sets the mug on her tray- and she heads out. 

Now he’s gotta tell everyone ‘Lina’s joining them. 

This should go well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am aware, now that it's been over half a year since I wrote this fic, that washington and carolina were not that close in project freelancer 
> 
> oh well


	3. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Freelancers party. It's a good time for all.

Maine leans against the wall, arms folded. He plays the part of the bouncer  _ very  _ well- He’s definitely the biggest, strongest guy on the ship, that’s for sure. He’s almost seven feet tall and a serious weight lifter. Washington has seen him crack half a dozen eggs into a glass and  _ drink  _ it as a meal. 

Maine stops leaning off the wall, moving to block the narrow hallway of the cramped lower deck. He inclines his head in question towards Carolina. 

“She’s with me,” Washington explains. 

Washington has gotten good at reading Maine after the disappearance of his voice. Maine leans forward slightly, shoulders raised. He doesn’t need Sigma to know that Maine doesn’t like this development.

“I’ll get you a beer.” 

Maine remains impassive.

“Two beers.” Washington haggles.

Maine shakes his head, holds up three fingers. 

“Three beers.” 

Another head shake. Maine spreads out all ten of his fingers clearly- a signal for _watch my fingers, this is sign language,_ something probably unique to Maine. The burly agent holds out both hands, making a fist barring his extended pinky and index. He pounds his right fist on top of his left twice, then repeats the motion. 

“Uhh…” Washington’s not an advanced signer and he looks at Maine helplessly. Maine exhales noisily through his nose. “Can you get Sigma?” 

A head shake. Maine tries individual letters- Washington reads out a W, H, I ( or a J? ), an S ( or a T? ) K, E-

“Whiskey!” Washington bursts out. Maine nods approvingly. “You want  _ three?”  _

Maine shakes his head, holds up three fingers again- It occurs to Washington that Maine’s not asking for three, his digits are supposed to be an ASL ‘w’. 

_ Fucking idiot.  _

“Bottle of whiskey, got it.” Washington says. “I promise.” 

Maine seems amicable to that. He steps aside and lets them through.

“Is it usually that difficult?” Carolina asks, amused. 

“No, but everything’s more difficult with you around.” Washington shrugs. “Sigma’s usually there to help him translate.” 

“Where  _ is  _ Sigma?” Carolina wonders. 

“If I had to guess? With the other Freelancers, waiting to tell everyone else to scatter just in case you try to crash the party.” 

A scoff. 

“What? You punch really hard, Carolina. And we’re not exactly  _ allowed  _ to have alcohol aboard the ship without permission.” 

Carolina looks to be resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“This way,” Washington says into the silence, helpfully directing Carolina down the labyrinthian hallways. 

The whole crew is waiting for them- CT, North and South, York, Florida, Wyoming. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been there very long- CT and South both have half-chugged beers, and everyone else looks to have just opened theirs.

“Carolina,” York greets with an awkward nod. Wyoming scoffs and turns back to Florida, shuffling a pack of cards with precise, practiced motions. No one- barring Florida and Carolina- is in their armor, opting for either casual wear or the protective Kevlar suit that was worn underneath their Mjolnir. Florida is the only one still wearing his helmet, but that wasn’t a change from usual. 

South, evidently judging Carolina as not a threat to her fun, turns back to Florida and Wyoming, and Wyoming starts doling out cards. CT rips open a huge pack of chips and pours it into a large stainless steel bowl she definitely stole from the kitchen. 

Washington steps further into the room- Wyoming nudges out a crate of beer from under a table. Washington picks up two, offering one out to Carolina. The glass is perspiring and somehow still cold- He’s not going to question how or why. 

Carolina takes the bottle from him. “So, where does the fun happen?” 

“When everyone else is drunk.” Washington says, hiding a smile. “Stay with York, I’ve gotta go get Maine his whiskey.” 

Carolina’s expression flickers and Washington reads it with pinpoint accuracy: she’s not comfortable being left alone, she’s a newcomer, an outsider, even amongst friends. Their dynamic and situation here is different than when they’re in combat, and she is uncertain how to click in this kind of social setting. 

“Stay with York,” Washington repeats. He says it more purposely, less offhand. She nods, approaches the half-blind agent. They exchange hellos and talk, and Washington drifts away to the card table.

“Maine asked for whiskey,” He says to CT. Wyoming shoots him a dirty look- Washington’s standing over his shoulder- and flattens his cards to the table. As if Washington would tell anyone about the Brit’s hand. 

“An entire bottle?” CT asks.

“Yeah. There was an unspoken risk of bodily harm if I don’t get it to him, so I’m not gonna ask.” 

“Maybe we should hide the whiskey,” South muses. “I’d like to see you get your ass kicked, Wash.” 

Wyoming and South laugh. 

“Well, I think that what you’re doing is swell, Washington,” Florida says with a carefree shrug. “Helping out our teammates like that.” He reaches under the table, procures a bottle of whiskey from somewhere by his feet, and slides it to Wash. “You go tell Maine that he’s doing us a big favor, and tell him I said  _ thank you  _ very much.” 

God, Florida is  _ so  _ creepy. 

“Take your helmet off,” Wyoming complains to Florida as Washington goes. “I can’t see your face, it’s tantamount to cheating.” 

Florida simply chuckles and deals a new hand. 

Washington paces down the hallway, bottle clutched tightly in hand. Maine leans against his same old wall, looking bored; the impassive amber glass of his helmet doesn’t allow his face to be seen, but Washington takes a stab and guesses he’s probably annoyed that he just has to stand here all night while everyone else parties.

“Hey, big guy.” Washington offers out the bottle. Maine’s head twitches up, his slumped body language perking. He reaches out, takes the whiskey. There’s a warbling hissing sound that leaves him, and Washington can’t help but wince. 

“Don’t talk,” Washington encourages. Vocalization has to hurt his throat more than it hurts Wash’s ears, right?

Maine nods. He presses a hand flat to the glass of his helmet, then extends it outward- almost like blowing a kiss, although with no lips involved. Washington knows this, at least-  _ thank you.  _

Washington makes a slow, clumsy gesture- a scooping motion with his hand, towards his chest, that should approximate as a _you’re_ _welcome._ The use of the sign evidently pleases Maine- he nods approvingly and gestures for Washington to return to the party. 

“You sure you’ll be alright out here by yourself? It’s probably boring.” 

Sigma appears suddenly, in a burst of flame akin to a guttering candle. Washington kind of wishes he could stumble through an ASL conversation instead of talking by proxy. 

“Agent Maine will be fine,” Sigma’s voice is cool, a contrast to the fire licking at his skin. “He isn’t much of a conversationalist, anyway. Go on ahead.” 

“Maine?” Washington checks. He gets a slow nod from the big lug, an encouraging jerk of his chin. He turns- spares a glance over his shoulder- and heads back to the party. 

York and Carolina are in a deep conversation- they don’t even look up as he passes them by. He catches some side-chatter about judo or something and decides not to intrude. The four card sharks are still playing in the corner, with Wyoming complaining about Florida’s unfair advantage while the patron of the sunshine state rakes in the pot. North is propped up against a folding table, watching his AI do skateboard tricks and sipping from his beer. North looks the most approachable, so Washington heads over.

“Hey,” He greets.

“Hey,” North gives a little two-fingered wave, his attention turning back to Theta after the AI lands a perfect kickflip. Washington used to be a skateboarder ( he still has his old skateboard in his locker ) and Theta’s boarding tears his attention off of potential conversation, too. 

They watch the AI run through a series of kickflips, nose grabs, spins and ollies, and Washington eventually manages to turn his mind off the show and commune like a normal adult at a party. 

“How’s it going so far?”

“Oh, fine. South and CT have been sniping at one another, but I’m keeping an eye on it.” North says, watching Theta carefully. 

“I meant with you.” 

“It’s nice to be here.” North shrugs slightly. 

“Yeah? You’re not playing poker or talking to anybody-” 

“I don’t need to play to enjoy it.” North sounds slightly chiding, like a reprimanding father who’s trying not to be  _ too  _ stern. “People are talking, drinking, having fun. It’s a good setting.” 

“WHAT!?” South shrieks at the top of her lungs, Wyoming and CT accompanying with a complaintive chorus.

“There’s no way-” 

“-That’s total B.S.!-” 

“-What the hell kind of hand!?-” 

“-You’re a cheater, Floor!” 

“I’m offended you’d make such an accusation!” Florida says, holding a hand to his chest. “If it really bothers you all, I suppose we could all share the winnings-” 

“No!” Wyoming and South bark at the same time. 

“Okay, then.” Washington thinks that Florida  _ might  _ sound a little smug. “Another round?” 

“ _ I’m _ dealing this time!” Wyoming snaps. 

“I’ll deal,” CT leans forward, elbows on the table.

“You’re obviously in cahoots!” Wyoming says, hostile. 

“Okay, okay. Let’s not get accusational.” Florida raises his hands. “Why don’t we make the game more interesting?” 

That seems to sate the three hyenas at the table. CT, Wyoming, and South slacken in their chairs.

“Interesting?” Wyoming’s brow crinkles, and he pulls at the edge of his mustache. 

“Strip poker!” Florida claps his hands together.

“No!” North calls, warningly. “There are kids here!” 

“Kids?” South chokes. “Where?” 

North steps away from the table and makes a broad gesture towards Theta, who freezes upon realizing he’s now the center of attention. 

“He’s an AI!” South objects. “He doesn’t count!” 

“He’s still a kid,” North argues. “I’m vetoing strip poker. Wash, back me up.” 

“Don’t,” Wash says, lamely. North sighs. 

“We could try blackjack,” Florida suggests. An amicable murmur sweeps through the gamblers, and they come to a consensus. 

“I’ll win back those credits,” Wyoming says, glaring balefully at Florida. The Freelancer simply laughs, gathers up the cards, and shuffles. He passes them off to South, who shuffles, then Wyoming, who shuffles, then CT, who shuffles a fourth and final time before distributing. 

“Wash, why don’t you get in on this?” CT gestures to the table. 

“I’m going to go flat broke,” He shakes his head. He is, notoriously, a garbage gambler. “No thanks.” 

“Suit yourself,” CT huffs. 

Washington and North exchange the occasional word, but for the most part, Wash basks in the familiarity of his new family. CT and South edge one another fiercely, vying to win; Wyoming keeps his nose in his cards, hissing obscenities and British slang so thick no one can understand him, but it’s probably curses. Florida is chipper and he  _ wins,  _ consistently. His cheerful voice bubbles merrily alongside Wyoming’s vows to beat Florida, alongside South and CT’s sniping, alongside the relaxed conversation between York and Carolina. 

The warm fuzziness of alcohol begins to tingle faintly in Washington’s gut; a pleasant buzz that steadies his hands although slurs his words and makes him think and move slower. Along with that there’s an alcohol-boosted confidence, momentarily pushing away the ugly anxieties that usually simmered just beneath the surface. He slurs something peppy to North, earns a laugh, and forgets whatever it was he’d just said.

Inhibitions go out the window, and over half a dozen professional Freelancers are reduced to drunken toddlers over the course of an hour. Even Carolina isn’t immune- She and York are pseudo-flirting thanks to the loosening grip of alcohol. 

“I say,” Wyoming jerks his chin triumphantly, “That  _ I  _ win this time, Florida!” 

Three drunken card-players all attempt to count. It takes a second, but they tally it up and it looks like Wyoming’s the victor. Wyoming hoots and hollers, proclaiming his first triumph of the night. Washington is momentarily amused when he recalls that Florida’s won hand after hand, not just this night, but  _ every  _ night. Florida was as ruthless and cunning as they came- at least, regarding cards. Probably had something to do with that sweet, borderline-saccharine personality of his… 

“Wash,” North nudges his shoulder, and Washington makes an inquisitive grunting noise. “Think you might’ve had too much.” 

“I only had…” 

Huh. When did all those beer bottles get there? 

“You did too,” Washington points out. At least, he  _ thinks  _ North has been drinking as much as him. Those can’t all be his. 

“Not as much as you. Hey. Theta.” 

The little AI appears from nowhere, humming inquisitively. 

“Remind me to tell the Director that Wash’ll be sick tomorrow.” 

“Sick?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Uh, okay. I will.” 

“Thanks.” North shoots Theta a smile, and the little AI flickers out of existence. 

“I can handle a hangover,” Washington rolls his eyes. 

“You’ll thank me tomorrow,” North picks up a bottle and slurps. “Want me to come ‘round with a puke bucket in the morning?” 

“Shut up,” He nudges North in the ribs, pushes himself off the folding table he’s been sitting on. His vision momentarily blurs, and a wave of dizziness sweeps through him along with motion. His legs refuse take his weight for half a second, but sort themselves out before he crashes to the ground. He wobbles, swaying- North is there to straighten him right away, and Wash waits for the gloating  _ I-told-you-so.  _

“Careful,” North chastises. “No helmet to keep you from knocking out your brains on the floor.” 

Washington’s momentarily distracted with Wyoming, South, CT, and Florida- Wyoming’s in his boxers and socks ( they have garters holding them up, holy shit ), South’s missing a shirt, Florida and CT are still fully clothed.

“I said no strip poker!” North calls, though he doesn’t sound that broken up about it. None of the gamblers take any notice of him. 

Carolina and York appear to have been roused from their endless conversation via the nudity- The two wander over to Washington and North.

“I’m gonna join,” York says, slurred but decisive. 

“No complaints from me,” Carolina responds. York laughs. 

North and Washington exchange a glance. 

=

The following morning, Washington awakes with a horrible headache, dry mouth, and a fuzzy memory, in a pile of half-naked Freelancers on the floor of the storage room. 

Maine must’ve joined the party at some point, because he’s slumped against the doorframe, head low, arms folded. 

Asleep at a guard post. 

Washington feels an intense, absurd affection for every person in the room. 

He sags comfortably into the tangle of limbs, head throbbing, and simply enjoys the moment. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in May, when I was a month or two into the fandom, so be gentle with me if my headcanons don't line up with yours. Some of the stuff in the following chapters I don't even headcanon anymore, on further examination. 
> 
> There are two other completed chapters, and I probably won't finish writing the fourth, so... Enjoy what I have, I guess?


End file.
